


clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Dany is a ghost, Dany is the villain, F/M, Jon is a Vampire, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Originally inspired by @writing-prompt-s' prompt on Tumblr: "Your landlord is a vampire, so he offers you a deal. You can pay your rent in money… or in blood."This was supposed to be just for fun, some mind reading, a little blood drinking, a bit of smut, you know, all normal and hot vampire stuff, but then suddenly there was reincarnation and backstory 😅He doesn't have the power to stop her, and it drives him mad with fury. There must be another way, but he still hasn't found one. The only certainty he has is that Sansa has four more years.He wants her to know him, all of him, and he doesn't want to stay alone in his memories this time. Having her close, but not knowing, is such a miserable and lonely fate. He feels even more determined now than he was before. He'll allow himself to be selfish this time.Title fromUnending Loveby  Rabindranath Tagore
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 67
Kudos: 153





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Authors_Restraint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authors_Restraint/gifts), [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> For Desi. 💕💕💕  
> If you're wondering if I'm gifting you this fic in order to bribe you into continuing your own reincarnation/immortal!Jon fic, I probably am! I'm just saying, my first librarian/vampire!Jon fic is what inspired you in the first place, so here's to hoping it'll work again 😅
> 
> For Amy. Because you've been so passionate about every little snippet/reference to this fic on Tumblr 💕💕💕

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be a one-shot, but I decided to split it up and post chapter 1 before I lose the draft!
> 
> More tags might be added.

Sansa is running a little late. She's usually more punctual, but Baelish wouldn't let her leave early. Truthfully, she almost decided not to show up for this appointment. She's alone, and it's dark this late at night, and though this neighborhood doesn't have a reputation like some others do, she's not familiar with it, and it's a bit remote.

But she doesn't have much of a choice. She needs to get out of Harry's apartment, and if she doesn't find a place of her own soon, she'll be sleeping on the couch in the back of the bar, which Baelish would be enjoying just a little too much. What she truly wants is to go back home to Winterfell, to her brothers and Arya, to Jeyne and uncle Benjen and aunt Lyanna. But she doesn't have money for the trip, and part of her is scared to face all of them. She was so eager to leave them all behind when she first went south. 

Though she's already five minutes late, she's the first to arrive. She is supposed to meet the landlord outside the building, but there is no one around. She takes out her phone and pulls up the message. She didn't mistake the hour nor the address Mr. Targaryen sent her. It's an odd name, unusual, one that belongs in centuries long passed and not in a text message.

"Miss Stark?" The whisper is as soft as the wind, but it almost feels as if his voice is reaching her from the inside and not through her ears. She turns around.

He stands not a full inch shorter than her, dressed all in black, jeans and leather. His hair is dark, and he has a neat beard and mustache, framing a plump, reddish mouth. He's handsome, but in an unusual way. She believes he can't be older than thirty. His eyes look dark in his pale face, though his cheeks are oddly flushed, as if he ran here. She didn't hear a car, and she doesn't see a new one close either, so perhaps he did walk here.

"Mr. Targaryen?" she asks.

"Please forgive me for being late, Miss Stark," he apologizes. "I had an urgent matter to attend to that took up a little more time than I expected."

He inclines his head in a way that almost makes Sansa think he's expecting her to curtsey back or something. When he looks back up at her, his lips twitch into a smile that strikes her as amused, and grows wider when she agrees to follow him up to the apartment.

It's small, just the living space with a kitchen only separated by a breakfast bar, the bedroom, and the bathroom, but it's clean and modern, and though the furniture is austere and basic, she's grateful that the place comes mostly furnished. In fact, it almost seems too good to be true. The rent isn't ridiculously low, but low enough that it made her suspicious when she first saw the picture with the for-rent sign on the advertisement board at the corner shop, which she'd already found unusual.

Mr. Targaryen voluntarily gives her an estimate for the utility bills, which is again, surprisingly low. She can feel his eyes on her as she inspects every corner, careful not to ask too many questions. He's not leering at her or checking her out, she's all too familiar with what that feels like to tell the difference, but he is watching her constantly.

She decides to be blunt. "What's the catch?" she asks, turning to face him.

He tilts his head, holding her gaze calmly. "There is no catch." He shrugs. "I don't really need the money, and I don't want the living space to go to waste."

She nods and runs her hand over the top of the breakfast bar, pretending to study the surface. "Then why don't you live in it yourself?"

"Oh, I have my own unit," he points out. "I own the building."

She shouldn't be surprised by that. She bites her lip, smoothing her hand down her scarf. "Alright," she tells him. "I'll take it."

The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles at her. "I have a standard contract in my office downstairs. We can fill out the details together right now, if you like."

She nods. "That would be great."

When they've finished the paperwork, he offers her the keys. 

She stares at them. "Don't you want to wait for the deposit?"

"There's no need for that," he waves away her objection. "In fact, I think you should stay here tonight. It's late. I don't believe it would be safe for you to head back home tonight."

She has been dreading that, both the Uber ride back and returning to Harry's spare room while he's off partying with his newest fling in Pentos. She knows she should be concerned by Mr. Targaryen's eagerness to keep her here, but for some reason she doesn't. She trusts him, even though she knows she probably shouldn't. 

He's giving her another smile when she looks up at him again, and she offers him a bright smile back.

"I'm never going to see my money," Sansa sighs into her phone as she turns the key and pushes the door open. She couldn't take Baelish' lecherous looks and lingering touches any longer, so she decided to quit on the spot. 

"Yeah, no," Jeyne mutters back. "Try to look at it like this, though. You won't have to see that creep Baelish ever again."

She sure hopes so. Thinking about the way Baelish looked at her and tried to touch her still makes Sansa shiver with disgust.

"Did you get in any trouble with your landlord?" Jeyne asks. 

"No," Sansa answers slowly as she drops her bag and jacket on a chair. Masha Heddle has been kind enough to give her more hours at the corner shop, and an advance payment of her next paycheck, but she didn't manage to pay Mr. Targaryen in time. "I was almost a week late, but I never saw him. He didn't even send me a text or anything."

"Just be careful," Jeyne warns her.

"What do you mean?" she asks with a frown as she toes her shoes off. 

"He didn't bring up the rent issue. That's... I don't know," Jeyne answers around a mouthful of something she's chewing loudly.

Sansa narrows her eyes, even though Jeyne can't see her. "What are you eating?"

Jeyne stays quiet for a couple of seconds. "Lemon cake."

Sansa groans as she thinks about the meager dinner she's about to make. She'll give herself five minutes on the couch before she starts that. "I'd kill for a lemon cake."

"So, tell me about Mr. Tarquinian."

"Targaryen," she corrects her friend. She doesn't understand Jeyne's sudden interest in her landlord. "He owns the building. He lives on the first floor, doesn't socialize much, only comes out at night. He's nice enough, but, I don't know, a little weird."

"Is he hot?"

She takes her time, swinging her legs up and crossing her feet. "I guess so. Kind of." She's not quite sure where Jeyne is going with this sudden change in her line of questioning, but knowing her, she's not expecting anything good to come out of it.

"Maybe you shouldn't be that careful after all," she continues, and Sansa can hear the grin in her voice.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Sansa." Jeyne laughs. "He owns a building and you guess he's kind of hot. He's probably one of those super rich eccentric types, and he might be into you."

She closes her eyes and rubs at the spot between her eyebrows. "And you're getting all of that from him not bringing up that my rent was late?"

"I have a gift," Jeyne answers proudly.

When Sansa opens her front door the next morning, there is a pastel green cardboard box waiting for her on the doormat, which has a card attached to it. She doesn't recognize the handwriting.

_It's comforting to know you still love lemon cakes. I wouldn't want you to kill someone over them, though, so I've arranged for a box of them to be delivered to you._

Sansa knows she should probably be freaking out, and feel creeped out, but instead, a familiar warmth starts spreading through her chest, and then, moments later, she's aching for something she didn't even know she had lost. She can almost remember what it is. The answer is on the tip of her tongue as a scent of pine, leather and woodsmoke embraces her, but it stays just out of her grasp, like someone she can see staring at her out of the corner of her eye, but is gone as soon as she turns around. 


	2. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a portrait of Sansa in his room. I used FaceApp to merge Sophie's face with the painting _Lady Hamilton as Circe_ by George Romney

_"I'm sorry, Jon," she whispered, pulling up a fur from the bed to wrap it around her shoulders._

_He sighed and rubbed at his jaw with one hand. "You should have told me, Sansa. You should have said something before." Truthfully, he had found himself at a bit of a loss as well, not just because of their situation, or because he still wasn't sure how Sansa felt about their new marriage, but also because this was quite new to him. He'd only been with experienced women, who didn't shy away from taking the lead in bed._

_For some reason, he had assumed, it would be like that with Sansa as well, that she'd want to be in charge, especially after her previous experiences. He had taken her aside the day before the wedding to tell her that he wasn't expecting anything from her on their wedding night, that there wouldn't be a bedding unless she wanted it. She had assured him that she was._

_She'd already been in bed when he entered their shared chambers together, motionless and flat on her back, her shift pulled up above her hips, waiting for him. Their first attempt at coupling had been awkward and stilted, and it had ended in tears._

_"I only wished to be a dutiful wife to you, Jon," she told him now. He should have guessed as much._

_"Is that all you wish for?"_

_"I- I know this marriage is not what you wanted."_

_No, it is not what I wanted for you. He knew that was not what she had meant though. One day, he was planning to tell her that she was wrong, that he never loved the Dragon Queen, that he had only ever loved **her** since she leapt into his arms at Castle Black._

_"I wish for us to be happy together, Sansa," he confessed, taking her hand. "Don't you believe it's possible?"_

_She offered him a shy smile, lacing her fingers through his. "I would like that." She bit her lip._ _"But isn't this supposed to be part of that?" She gestured between the two of them with her free hand._

_"We have time," he assured her._

_"We need an heir," she said, shaking her head. "You'll have to do it eventually."_

_"Sansa," he implored her, "look at me." He took her hand between his own two and held it there tightly. "I won't bed you until you're begging me to."_

_She laughed and lowered her eyes, shaking her head. "I wouldn't count on it."_

_He waited for her to look up at him again and offered her a grin. "I'm not one to shy away from a challenge."_

_And gods,_ she had begged him, and the memory makes him ache in a thousand different ways. He takes a sip from his tumbler and lets the sting of the whiskey kiss his tongue and throat. He looks up at the portrait of his sweet lovely Sansa. He could spend days just staring at her, reminiscing and wallow in his grief, he has, but he won't do that now. He has found her again, and he's managed to find a way to keep her close to him. 

There have been others, throughout the years. He found six of them. One time, he only had to wait two years for her to be reborn again. The longest he's had to wait was one-hundred-and-thirty-two years. He must have missed a couple of them, during that first century, when he was too full of rage and grief to look for her, even after he had learned he could find her again, and then later, when he had almost given up. 

They were all Sansa, and yet they were not. They had different names, different faces, different bodies, different dreams, yet they were all parts of Sansa. But this woman, who is currently singing in her tiny apartment, twirling around on socked feet as she heats up leftover pasta, she's different. 

Her name, the colour of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips. She is his Sansa come again. She has her kindness, her strength, her wit. He closes his eyes to listen to her singing again. He's not familiar with the song, but her voice is the sweetest thing he's heard in hundreds of years. 

Just having her close is enough for him, for now. She will be twenty-four soon, which means he only has little over four years left. Though he tried to prevent it from happening after he witnessed what happened to the first two reincarnations of Sansa, he hasn't found a way to break this curse yet.

All of them died on the day they turned twenty-eight, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was completely powerless. Fear clutches his still, dead heart, almost making him feel alive again. He can't lose her, not again, though he's not quite sure yet how he's going to stop it from happening this time.

He believes it would be easier if she were to remember their first life together. He thinks she would understand it. But then again, perhaps he shouldn't be hoping she'll remember. He is not the man he once used to be, the man his first Sansa loved. He wants to spend the time they've been given with her, and find a way to keep her alive this time. The four years still remaining to them are nothing to him, and everything at the same time. 

This time, it will be different. He won't be a bystander in her life, helping her out whenever necessary. He'll be a part of it, for as long as she wants him. And this time, he'll prevent the curse from taking her. This time she won't die on her twenty-eighth nameday.

In the last couple of months, Jon has learned everything there is to know about Sansa Stark, and every single detail has made him fall in love with her all over again. He listens to her all the time, her thoughts, her conversations, her singing, the simple things she's doing when she's at home.

He's learned she dropped out of college after her parents died. They had some money set aside for all of their children, but she won't have access to that until she is twenty-five. He's sure he can liquidate some of his own assets to make sure she can reprise her studies earlier if she wished to. 

Growing up she had a difficult relationship with her sister Arya, just like his Sansa, but it seems they've overcome most of their differences, though he detected a sense of guilt and shame in her when she was Facetiming her sister. His heart clenched when he checked in on her during that conversation. This Arya looks exactly like his own little sister as well.

It's had him wondering, and hoping even. If they have all finally returned, that should be a good sign, he's told himself over and over again. But they haven't. Sansa has four brothers instead of three; he's heard her mention Robb and Bran, but there is no sign of Rickon, though she does have younger twin brothers named Torrhen and Cregan.

He's heard other names in her memories and conversations, names that would make his blood boil if that was still possible, that make his vision go red and make him hungry for their blood, for their pain, for their deaths. He leaps to his feet and kneels before her likeness. She wouldn't have liked this part of him, this bloodlust, this rage. 

"Please, forgive me, Sansa," he whispers, brushing his fingers over the paint in the lightest of touches. Outside, he can hear soft footsteps on the sidewalk, a jingling of keys, a click as she turns in it the lock.

All right then, he should get dressed and pay her that visit he's been planning. This is only her third month here, but it's the second time she's failed to pay her rent on the date they'd agreed on. He's worried about her, and he knows her fear of what the consequences might be is adding to her own concerns, so it's best to get this over with now. He wishes he had a different reason to visit her, one that would make her happy to see him arrive on her doorstep, but that wish is nothing more than a dream right now. 

There's a hint of fear in her blue eyes when she opens the door and sees him standing there. She's not afraid of him, but she fears what he's about to tell her. As he takes the time to look at himself through her eyes, he's startled by the fact that she doesn't see him the way most other people do. It's part of what he is, that humans always see a slightly enhanced version of him, a version that is more attractive to them. It's not like that for her, she sees him as he is, almost like the man he used to be. 

"Mr. Targaryen," she greets him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Jon," he corrects her, not wishing to hear her call him that again. "Please, call me, Jon."

She bites her plump pink bottom lip. "Jon. Would you like to come in?" He believes her apprehension would be palpable even if he wasn't able to pick it out of her head. Her mind is a mix of a loud repetition of the words _"oh no,"_ and her trying to grasp for excuses and the best way to placate him. 

"Sure," he answers, the corner of his mouth curling up. 

"Can I offer you a drink?" she asks, wringing her hands together. 

Instead of lingering on the familiarity of her gestures, he allows himself a chuckle as he crosses the threshold. In spite of the many centuries he's spent in this world, his interactions with humans have always been limited, so even now, it amuses him whenever that offer is made to him.

"No, thank you," he tells her.

"Mr. Targ-Jon," she starts, whirling around and almost crashing into him. He steadies her with a hand on her arm, quickly pulling it back before he can do something foolish such as trying to embrace her and hold her close. 

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, heat flaring her cheeks. Her blush is stirring things inside of him, desires and urges he desperately needs to keep under control if he wants to have a normal conversation with her. 

"I know I'm late with the rent, again," she continues, fiddling with the zipper of her green jacket, "but I promise I can get it sorted out by the end of the week."

He nods and puts his hands in his coat pockets. "It's all right, I told you I don't really need the money. But I was worried about you, Sansa."

She stares at him with an incredulous look in her eyes. Her eyes narrow, but then her lips part and her brow furrows. Disbelief, suspicion, confusion, and something else, something he doesn't dare to hope for yet. It's as plain on her face as he can feel it inside her head.

He reckons that means he's found one thing that makes her different from his Sansa. Or perhaps it's just that he knows her face so well. Or, perhaps, perhaps, he allows himself to believe for a brief moment, perhaps she doesn't truly wish to conceal her thoughts and feelings from him. Could that sense of familiarity and even recognition he thinks he detected be real?

"I had to quit one of my jobs," she confesses. "The manager, Mr. Baelish..." As she trails off, he clenches his fists inside his pockets. _Baelish,_ one of the names that would make his blood boil if that were possible. Trying to keep the rage under control is making it difficult to listen to her thoughts, but perhaps that's for the best. He already knows the gist of it, if he were to learn any details he would go and find Baelish to rip his spine out this very moment.

He blinks and watches her hug her own frame, her eyes lowered. He wishes he could wrap his own arms around her and push himself up on his toes to kiss her hair and her forehead. He'd whisper sweet nothings into her skin and renew his promise to protect her, and this time he wouldn't fail, but he doesn't do any of those things.

"It's all right," he says softly. "I understand." He doesn't want to subject her to trying to explain to him what happened. Perhaps he should pay Mr. Baelish a visit tonight. 

"Goodnight, Sansa," he tells her before turning around to walk out of her apartment.

He can feel her confusion when she whispers back, "Goodnight, Jon."

The next morning, he is listening in again as she wakes up. He lies back as she pads out of the bedroom and over to the kitchen counter to make a strong pot of coffee she'll ruin with too much sugar and milk. He can hear her yawn, and he can only imagine how adorable she must look with her hair tousled and tumbling about her shoulders, her cheeks all rosy and her eyes still heavy with sleep.

He hears her moving around, opening cabinets and softly humming to herself. She puts her mug down on the breakfast bar and there's a soft rustling. He folds his hands over his chest and smiles. She's found the envelope with the money Baelish owed her, and then some. 

When she gasps, he finds himself wishing once again he was there to see the look on her face and wrap her up in his arms and tell her everything is going to be all right. 


	3. Jon/Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of information on Jon and Sansa's past (lives).
> 
> This is based on the show characters and their stories. The events from seasons 7 and 8 have happened in roughly the same way as we've seen on the show, with a couple of important differences
> 
> 1\. pol!Jon was real and Jon never loved Dany
> 
> 2\. Jon actually had a personality, and was probably already a little darker when he was still human
> 
> 3\. Jon didn't feel quite as conflicted about killing Dany, he didn't need Tyrion telling him why it needed to be done, and he definitely didn't wonder whether it was right afterwards.
> 
> 4\. Jon wasn't exiled, because there was actually no real reason whatsoever for that to happen on the show. Maybe he needed to be punished for assisting Daenerys in carrying out war crimes, but since the show never brought that up, we're not going there.
> 
> 5\. Tyrion got his tongue ripped out by that one hot Dothraki dude and died.
> 
> 6\. While I'm not opposed to the King Bran ending, it made no sense at all on the show, and I'm still struggling to figure out how George is going to pull it off, so in this story Edmure became King of the United Kingdoms of Westeros. Bran stayed with him to help.
> 
> 7\. Daddy Dorne stood up for Dorne's independence and got it!
> 
> 8\. Arya didn't leave Westeros until both Jon and Sansa had died. She got a daughter out of her one-night stand with Gendry. Modern Sansa is a descendant of Arya's daughter, whose name was Catelyn.
> 
> 9\. 5, 6 and 7 are completely irrelevant to this story, but I wanted to tell you anyway 🤣

_A moodboard I made for this fic._

_Anya Taylor Joy as Daenerys' ghost._

_**JON** _

Jon hasn't slept in nine days. He doesn't need much sleep anyway, but without sleep, he has too much time on his hands. He finds himself wandering around the streets of Oldtown again, like he has most nights before this one. He prefers to stay inside during the day. The daylight makes it that much more difficult for him to conceal his otherness. But staying inside means he doesn't do much else apart from think about Sansa and listening to her when she's home. 

He went to see her again, earlier today. It was her day off, and a woman named Ros came to visit her, telling her about Mr. Baelish' unexpected death. Sansa felt conflicted about the relief that washed over her when she heard the news, so since he was the cause of her turmoil, Jon knew he had to visit her again.

He had a perfect excuse. His old friend Sam Tarly and Gilly found each other again in this life. Sam is a professor at Oldtown university and Gilly runs a shelter for women who have lived through domestic abuse. With their busy schedules, they are in desperate need of an extra pair of hands to help them with their children.

Jon told Sansa about their predicament, assuring her they would pay her generously, and gave her Gilly's phone number. She was surprised, but pleased by his help. He believed she was holding up quite fine, so he decided to leave again. As far as she is aware, they hardly know each other, and the last thing he wishes to do is spook her by forcing his company on her. He's certain she recognizes him at times, though it's not on a conscious level yet. He wishes he could already tell her everything, but he's afraid to force matters. 

When he turns the corner, a small, slight figure is waiting for him and he finds himself staring into a face he never wanted to see again. His fangs pop out and he sinks into a crouched stance. He can't help it, instinctively, he lunges for her, but he falls through empty air and almost topples over, only his quick reflexes saving him from the shame of crashing into the pavement. 

He can't touch her. She's the shade of a dead woman, a woman who has died by his hands not once, but twice, and if he were able to lay a hand on her now, he would do it again and make it thrice. 

"Nephew," the ghost of Daenerys Targaryen greets him flatly as she turns around to face him again. "So you've found her again." Her eyes roam over his face and body. "I'm not sure why you even bother anymore." She tilts her head to the side. "You already know how this is going to end."

He bares his fangs at her. "Not if I find a way to get rid of you this time."

Her smile looks almost indulgent, but her eyes are hard. "You'll never get rid of me. You betrayed me. You murdered me. Not once, but twice."

"You killed hundreds of thousands innocent people! You burned all of them alive after the city had surrendered." He knows that even after so many hundreds of years, she still doesn't see it that way. A vampire's mind is not accustomed to change, and a ghost's even less.

"We both know that's not why you did it," she points out with glittering eyes. 

He huffs. Of course she would draw the attention away from her crimes to focus on what he did to her, and why he did it. 

"You wouldn't be what you are if you were really the good and honourable man you like to pretend you are. You did it for her. And what was your excuse again the second time?" He despises the triumphant flare of her nostrils, the way she squares her shoulders and the glint of mania in her eyes as she glares at him. 

She's right, at least about the first time. He was a coward, he might have just walked away, left all of it behind him, if it wasn't for Sansa. He had promised to protect her. The second time had been for her again, of course it had been. Daenerys had condemned him to an eternity without Sansa. He hated Daenerys for what she had done to him, so after running from her for the better part of a hundred years, he had killed her, but not before she had issued her last command as his maker. 

" _You_ made me what I am," he reminded her.

"I gave you a second chance, the same chance I had been given, and you betrayed me again." Her nostrils flare and her voice is trembling with rage, her small hands are balled into fists. "You took _everything_ from me, so I'll keep taking away the one thing you care about, to punish you for what you did to me."

He snarls at her, his vision going red and his gums hurting from the desperate need to sink his fangs into flesh and rip.

"Aren't you getting bored of this conversation, Jon?" The indifference in her voice snaps him out of his fury. Calmly, she folds her hands in front of her stomach. "How many times have we had it before?"

He is not planning to humour her. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything anymore." She shrugs. "You took that as well. I'm stuck in this cycle as much as she is."

He doesn't need the air, but he takes a deep breath to steady himself anyway. "Then why don't you end it?"

"It doesn't work like that." She almost looks sad when she says it, but then her lips curl up into a cruel smile. "Tick-tock, Jon."

And then she is gone again. He can hear soft voices approaching him. He needs to get out of here before he takes his anger out on someone who doesn't deserve it. He takes off so quickly he must be reduced to a blur to the eyes of the humans who round the corner just when he leaves, and ends up on the beach, staring at the waves crashing into the sand as he falls to his knees. 

He doesn't have the power to stop her, and it drives him mad with fury. There must be another way, but he still hasn't found one. The only certainty he has is that Sansa has four more years. 

He wants her to know him, all of him, and he doesn't want to stay alone in his memories this time. Having her close, but not knowing, is such a miserable and lonely fate. He feels even more determined now than he was before. He'll allow himself to be selfish this time. 

* * *

_**SANSA** _

Sansa recognizes the soft knock at her door in a heartbeat. She could pretend to be asleep, or taking a bath. If she doesn't answer the door, he'll have to leave. She doesn't think Jon is the kind of landlord who would enter without her permission or force his way into the apartment. As she stands in the middle of the living room floor, biting her lip and uncertain about her options, his voice drifts through the door.

"I know you're in there, Sansa. I can hear you thinking."

_Haha, that's hilarious._ He's not the first person who has told her that. She really can't help it that she doesn't like confrontation. She takes a deep breath and braces herself. This is the third time she's failed to pay rent in time. She's certain he's not going to let it slide this time. 

She opens the door and blurts out, "Are you going to kick me out?" So much for not being the confrontational type.

For some inexplicable reason, he appears to be amused by her question. "No," he tells her, shaking his head, and Sansa finds herself staring at the way his smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up. "But perhaps we can make an arrangement. Can I come in?"

She purses her lips and swallows, her knuckles turning white where her hands are desperately holding on to the door. "Yes."

He walks over the threshold and when she has closed the door again and turned around to face him, he's smiling up at the fairy lights she's hung up all around the room. As she stares at him, the image in front of her changes, and snowflakes are drifting down all around his smiling face, his hair is longer, and pulled back into a bun at the back of his head, his long black coat is gone and replaced by a heavy fur cloak, and that almost familiar scent of pine, leather and woodsmoke envelops her again.

When she blinks, it's all gone, and she finds him frowning at her. 

"You don't have enough money to pay rent, correct?"

She wants to deny it.

"Don't lie to me, Sansa." She shivers at the way he says her name (San-zuh) and nods. He's right, there is no use in trying to deny it or lying to him.

He takes a deep breath and looks down as he shifts his feet. "I've already told you twice that I don't really need the money." He picks a bit of lint from the lapel of his coat before he glances up at her. "But there's something else I need."

Oh Gods, Jeyne was right. He's going to ask her for sex instead of money. It's not that she wouldn't want to, but not like this.

He smiles and blinks slowly. "Don't worry, Sansa. I do want to fuck you, but, no, not like that."

Sansa's mouth falls open. _Ow shit._ Did he actually mean it literally when he said he could hear her thinking earlier? "How...?"

"You're a smart woman, haven't you figured it out?"

She has, sort of. She once joked to Jeyne that she suspected her landlord was a vampire, but surely that can't be true?

"It is." His lips curl back and with a weird plop his canines grow into fangs. "Are you afraid?"

After a sharp inhale, she licks her lips. "No." Her heart is trying to beat out of her chest. 

He looks down before he smiles at her again. "Liar." His fangs are still out, and though the sight is as mind-boggling as it is chilling, she can't quite take her eyes off them. 

"A little," she admits. It's still an arresting sight though, as if she can suddenly see him more clearly now that he has confirmed what he is, and she's quite enthralled by what she is seeing.

He nods and puts his hands in his pockets. 

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she averts her eyes. "What do you want from me?" she asks "What did you mean earlier, when you said we can make an arrangement?"

"I'm a vampire." A shiver runs down her spine when she hears him say the word out loud. "I need blood to survive," he continues, his eyes dropping down to her balled fists as she takes a step back. "Not much, I've been around for a while."

She's still surprised by how well she is taking this news. It's almost as if part has known it from the moment she met him. And she believes she already knows what he's about to ask her. "Why don't you go out and hunt? Isn't that what vampires do?"

His brow furrows. "The thrill of the hunt loses its appeal after so many years," he says slowly. "And it's not pleasant for the human. I can make them forget, but the memory remains, deep inside, it haunts them."

Sansa fiddles with her sleeve, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "But it wouldn't be like that if, if you bit me?" she can't help asking him.

"No." He shakes his head, his lips curling into--no, not really a smile. It makes him look smug, or as if he's in on a joke that she's unaware of. 

"If you agree," he says, meeting her eyes ,"if you're prepared, and relaxed, the experience could even be pleasant for you." He's still holding her gaze and she thinks his eyes have turned a couple of shades darker. There's something about them that makes her want to step closer to him, but she doesn't. She takes a step back and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"So what you're saying is, I don't have to pay rent if I let you drink my blood?" she asks him coolly.

His fangs shrink back to the size of normal teeth and his eyes suddenly don't appear as dark anymore. "Correct."

"How often would you need to..."

"Feed? Every fortnight would be enough, but perhaps once a week would be better for you." His tone is even more detached than hers now. 

"Why?" she wants to know. 

He shrugs. "I wouldn't have to take as much."

Part of her is still processing all of this information, and yet she already knows her answer. She meets his gaze and nods. "Okay."

His brow furrows. "Okay?"

"We have a deal. Take as much as you need."

He tilts his chin up and his eyes grow wide. "You agree?" He sounds surprised, as if he wasn't expecting her to. 

She shrugs. "Yeah, it's a fair deal."

Jon doesn't take her blood that night. He says he wants to give her time to reconsider. Sansa doesn't need time to make up her mind, but she does think it's oddly sweet of him. She's grown used to men just taking things from her when they want them, and Jon's insistence to give her more time is showing her more respect than she's had from most of her exes. Whenever she thinks about it she has to remind herself that this is a business deal. She needs a roof over her head, he needs the sustenance she can provide with her blood. And yet, when she tries to picture it, the images she conjures up are all so very intimate. 

Jon drinks from her for the first time about a week after his last visit. It is an odd and mostly awkward experience to put it mildly. Even though he tries to soothe her and make her comfortable, she's too nervous, and despite what he has told her it's still a bit painful. She feels a little weak afterwards, and slightly inebriated.

"That's the anesthetic in my saliva," he answers to her evaluation of her mental state. 

The only reaction she can manage is, "Huh."

"Are you hungry?" he asks her.

She turns her head to look at him. He's lying on his side next to her on her bed, propped up on one elbow. She tries to lift a hand to touch his flushed cheeks. She studies his face and notices that his lips are red and that his eyes look brighter. "Pretty," she mumbles.

He chuckles. "Can I get you anything?"

"Tuna sandwich," she mutters back. He wrinkles his nose, but gets up and disappears into the kitchen. She almost starts to cry when he enters the room again with a plated sandwich. When she's finished eating it, he tells her to get some sleep. Her eyes are already too heavy to resist closing them. When she opens them again, he's leaning over her, brushing her hair back from her forehead. 

"It will get better for you," he whispers, and for some reason Sansa is reminded of what Waymar Royce told her after he took her virginity. 

Waymar was right, and so is Jon. It does get better every time. She's ashamed to say she's started to look forward to Jon's visits. She dresses nicely for him, though she tells herself the cleavage is only for practical purposes, but she can't exactly claim the same about the lipstick or the high heels. She tries not to think about it once he arrives, but she's seen the knowing smirk on his face. Letting Jon feed on her is not quite as good as great sex, but it's a close second.

She thinks about his confession, his admission that he wanted to fuck her every single time he leaves her again, wondering why he never initiates anything after he takes her blood, when he should be perfectly aware that she's more than willing. 

It's been three days since his last visit, and Sansa is changing channels on her small television as she waits for the water on the stove to boil, trying to find some satisfying background noise as she cooks dinner. She hardly notices reaching up and scratching the small bite marks on her neck. They usually heal pretty quickly, but she still has to wear a scarf for a day or two after Jon feeds on her.

She's startled by a soft, single knock on the door. "Come in," she calls out slightly confused. He wasn't supposed to come back for four more days. She hears the clicks of the door opening and closing again, and then he's standing next to her, his fingers brushing the marks on her neck.

"Whoa," she huffs out, taking a step back. "Can you please not do that?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his knuckles brushing her jaw. She needs him to stop doing that, too, but she doesn't want him to. 

Reaching behind him, he opens a drawer and retrieves a sharp knife. He uses it to cut into the pad of his left index finger. 

"What are you doing?"

"The wounds are getting infected," he tells. "This will help them heal."

Her lips part and her eyes flit from his face to the bright red bead of blood trickling down his finger. 

"Quickly, before I have to cut myself again."

She's not sure if she's supposed to lick the blood off his finger or catch it in a cup or something, and in a split-second decision, she ends up doing something else. She closes her lips over the tip of his finger and swirls her tongue around it. At first she tries to avoid looking at him, but then their eyes accidentally lock, and she can't look away anymore.

His blood tastes sweeter than she would have expected, not as salty and metallic as human blood. She takes his finger deeper into her mouth and sucks hard. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes almost black, and as they flutter closed, the groan that escapes from his throat sends a jolt of pleasure straight to her clit. Her lips relax, and he slowly pulls his finger out of her mouth. He brushes the tip of his finger over her bottom lip and she half expects him to thrust it back into her mouth, but he doesn't. 

When he opens his eyes again, he's looking at her as if he's about to pounce on her. She wants him to. She licks her lips and whimpers his name, and then he's gone, leaving her standing dazed in the middle of the kitchen as the water on the stove boils over. 

It's enough to distract her for a couple of minutes, but as she cooks and eats her dinner, she keeps wondering what would have happened if Jon had stayed. 

That night, Sansa dreams that she is making a snow knight in the yard of an enormous castle with her sister Arya. They are both wearing long dresses and fur coats. Around them are more people who are wearing medieval-looking clothes. She can also see horses and goats and chickens. More children are running around in the snow, their cheeks red from the cold and from laughter. 

She and Arya end up throwing snowballs at each other, and rubbing snow in each other's hair. It's a beautiful dream that makes her long for something she couldn't really remember until she dreamed it. She wakes up with a smile on her face and tears welling up in her eyes. 


End file.
